Big Papa's Little Havana
by elise50
Summary: AU: Private detective Mark Sloan is hired by nightclub owner Carlos Torres to follow his youngest daughter Calliope.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I started this a long while back (if you've read it before you might notice some changes) and since I've dropped out of the writing game for a bit, I thought I'd go back and polish some of my unfinished stuff to see if that helps strike any inspiration. I hope you guys enjoy my little venture into AU land.

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><p><em>Private Office Building, New York City; 1946<em>

Gray clouds huddled over the city, blocking the sun like a gloomy blanket as heavy rain drops pounded into the streets below; the dank weather reflected the times, dark and hopeless. Organized crime and political corruption still ran citizen lives, killing dreams and crushing aspirations, making it nearly impossible to find a shred of light in the Big Apple.

"Here's your coffee."

Swiveling away from the large blind covered window in his office, Mark Sloan turned to the familiar voice at his door.

"Black?"

"Is there any other way to have it?"

Smirking, he pulled the steaming cup closer and settled back into his chair. Closing his eyes, he took a sip of his drink and sighed in contentment as it traveled downward and warmed his throat. Taking a few moments to savor the taste and brief euphoria, he finally lifted his lids and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting before speaking again.

"Anything?"

"Not yet."

Dragging fingertips across his scruffy chin, Mark's jaw clenched with tension.

As if sensing his anxiety and need for solitude, Meredith quietly exited the room, shutting the door behind her as she went.

Waiting until the door completely clicked shut, Mark leaned down and yanked open the middle drawer of his desk. Pulling an old whiskey flask from behind the small stack of papers that laid there, he used his teeth to rip off its top and poured the remnants into his cup. Staring down at the ever inviting and self-forbidden drink, Mark tightened his fists to keep his fingers from stretching to the cup. He stayed that way for minutes, willpower building inside him before finally finding the strength to shove it away.

Chuckling in relief, he twisted back toward the window that faced the bustling area below. Scooting forward, he used his thumb and index finger to pry apart a section of the thin metal blinds obstructing his view. With uninterested eyes he looked out into the world, watching steam from the underground vents billow up into the blackened alley at the side of the building. Scanning the lamp lighted sidewalk, he whipped his head sharply as the sound of cat screeching and the loud clatter of trashcans falling against a brick wall somewhere across the way filled the night.

Dropping his hand away from the small opening, he let the blinds fall together. Turning his back on them as they vibrated into place, he stared up and stole a glance at the ticking clock that hung at the far end of the room.

It was a quarter to nine.

Kicking out his foot, he unceremoniously clunked it at the edge of the desk. Rolling his neck, Mark reached back and grabbed the cigar and lighter hidden in his coat pocket. Tapping the capped end on the arm of his chair, he smirked and looked up at the clock again.

Crunching the Cuban between his teeth, he grabbed his cutter and sliced the tip; lighting the cigar as soon as the extra piece hit the floor. Inhaling slowly, he held the flavor in his mouth for longer than most would recommend, only letting the smoke creep away when the smaller hand of the clock moved.

A quarter to nine.

Almost the same hour when he had first seen her.

.

.

.

_Big Papa's Little Havana, Miami; 1946_

The air was crisp and despite its warmth, fairly pleasant. He was so used to dampness and the sheer cold nights of New York City that it almost seemed odd to enjoy the environment.

Standing against the lamp post, Mark pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stepped back into the shadows. Shaking off the fire of his match, he lifted his leg, flattening his foot against the wall behind him while he took a puff of the lit stick between his fingers. Reaching up with his free hand, he adjusted the wide brimmed fedora on his head and quietly watched as group after group raced into the grimy little nightclub; some dancing as they entered, others rushing in for seats.

He couldn't fathom what was so special about _this_ place. It didn't look like much from its dreary outside. Then again, these joints were all the same to him; spots where notables and insignificants melded together, drank and danced the night away. There was nothing altogether wrong with that kind of entertainment, but it wasn't _his_ idea of an eventful evening. In his mind, nothing beat a good smoke, a good drink and an even better woman.

But those could wait for now, because he had business to attend to.

Pulling his hand to his mouth, Mark sucked the last bit of his cigarette before tossing it to the floor and stomping it out with the toe of his scuffed wingtip shoe. Adjusting his long coat, he stared as the dolled up patrons huddled through the front doors before he slipped toward the back entrance.

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><p>Getting past the club flunkies was harder than he had expected, the four tanned monsters and the beefy Scottish brute had looked to be nothing more than moving muscle. But the way they led him through the back of the club, successfully blinding him to any unethical practices (not that he'd report them anyway, he was done with glorified police work; Shepherd had made sure of that); he thought that there might be more up there than the fading bulb he had originally suspected.<p>

"Wait here."

Shrugging, Mark sunk into the wall as the big Scott slipped into one of the closed doors. Straightening himself, he observed the space; it was quiet and secluded, perfect for the shady dealings that happened in most nightclubs. Sliding a hand into his trench coat pocket, Mark's fingers played with matchbook inside it as he wondered what kind of callous and sinister _business_ standards this place set.

"Get in."

Lifting his head at the sound of the opened door and sudden, thick accented order, Mark raised a brow at the demanding voice. Knowing that his disobedience would cause more trouble than he needed, he pulled himself together and sauntered through the doorway, following the piercing, dangerous eyes of the mean redhead as he went.

"He may be menacing, but Owen does his job."

Turning, Mark finally brought his attention to the room and its occupant.

The office was extravagant, well furnished, decorated with imported goods, cigars littered the mahogany desk, half empty bottles of liquor were held on display; it was a poor man's dream and rich man's envy.

In the center of it all was the smiling Carlos Torres, better known to club clientele as _Big Papa_. A tiny man, half bald, in slacks and a cream colored graybeard; he looked entirely harmless, but so did much of prison's crime bosses.

Leaning back in his oversized chair, Mr. Torres pulled one of the freshly clipped cigars to his fingers, dancing it between them as he studied Mark.

"So you're the man all my friends in the city have been raving about? I was expecting someone with a more…harrowing presence."

Smirking at the flung insult, Mark stared down at the seated man.

"So was I."

Carlos eyed him for a few moments before throwing himself back and bursting into laughter. Bald head gleaming, he waved his free hand at the guard beside him, "Alexander get Aria to bring in some drinks."

Nodding the younger man went, giving Mark a once over as he passed.

"Sit," Carlos motioned to one of the chairs in front of his. Moving around the furniture, Mark settled in the spot directly across the show runner. Pulling a match from beneath his desk, Carlos struck the red nub against the edge of his chair and let the flame hiss before bringing it to the tip of his Cuban. Expertly releasing a puff of smoke, his stare dropped onto his visitor.

But before either could say a word to each other, the door behind them opened.

Seconds later, a finely dressed woman strolled past Mark, balancing a tray of empty crystal glasses as she successfully maneuvered through the room.

"This is my step-daughter Aria."

In true mannered fashion, Mark tipped his hat to her; taking the opportunity to scan her slowly. She was beautiful; brown eyes, dark hair, pearls adorning the neck, slender body draped in a simple black dress falling just below her knee, tight enough to show off her enticing frame.

Her movements were exaggerated and screamed for attention; something he might've considered offering if she hadn't appeared so high maintenance.

Eyeing him, she slide his glass of whiskey across the desk, holding his gaze for longer than necessary.

"That will be all Aria."

Turning she glanced at her father, seemingly miffed by the easy dismissal. With an undignified huff, she placed the bottle at the edge of Carlos's desk before making a show of her departure.

"Alexander," shifting his gaze from the retreating backside of his boss' step-daughter, the young sentinel stationed beside them, returned his focus to the calling man. "Leave us."

As displeased with the command as the woman had been, the strapping goateed bodyguard hesitated for a moment before following his given orders.

Watching as he left, Mark stayed silent until he was sure they were alone.

"You paid my way here from New York, what is it you want me for?"

Smiling Carlos held the clear glass to his mouth, swirling the colored liquid. Pausing, he lifted the drink to his lips and sipped away what remained. Grabbing the left behind unlabeled bottle, he poured himself half a glass.

"Straight to business…that's an admirable quality."

Tired of the man's tiptoeing, Mark leaned forward making sure the older man understood his seriousness.

"What's this about Mr. Torres?"

Three quick knocks broke his concentration.

Standing, Mr. Torres unwrinkled his shirt and patted down the sides of his gray hair before reaching over and dropping a dark fedora over his head. Stubbing out his cigar in the ivory ashtray behind him, he slunk around and away from his desk. Passing Mark, he made it to the door before turning back to his guest.

"Why don't I show you?"

Tilting his head in curiosity, Mark remained seated for a few seconds before standing and following the older man out of the office.

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><p>The place was packed; circular tables lined the walls, going from one end of the room to the other. The décor of the club was predictable; styled after the streets of Havana but with less dirt and depression.<p>

Everywhere he looked people were socializing. Men in their suits and spectator shoes, waving their complimentary cigars; women dressed to the nines…hats, gowns, slim white cigarettes resting in the 'V' of their gloved fingers. They strolled through the entertained crowd, stopping occasionally to offer greetings and hellos to the more indulging customers.

When they finally arrived at their table, a small circle resting away from the chatting throng of people, a young waiter, dressed in a perfectly fitted uniform lifted a half full bottle of rum into their line of vision.

"May I offer you and your guest a drink Big Papa?"

Mark's lip curled at the ridiculous name.

"No, no Tony. We're fine," Carlos waved the drink and looked past the boy toward the empty stage.

Suddenly, the band quieted and the spotlights lowered, forcing the room into near complete darkness. The loud chaos calmed quickly and the audience dropped to a hushed silence as a shadowed figure stepped out onto the stage.

Seconds later, the lights brightened enough to reveal to spectators the silhouette of a tall, curvaceous woman at the mic.

With a raise of her hand, the band at her left began to play; prompting the gentle sway of her hips. They carried a soft rhythm that flowed with the music, engaging Mark and the dozens of onlookers in the crowd.

_Alone from night to night you'll find me  
>too weak to break the chains that bind me<em>

Her voice was raw and exceptionally beautiful; he'd never heard anything quite like it before.

It left him dumbfounded and all he could do was listen; all he _wanted_ to do was listen.

_I need no shackles to remind me  
>I'm just a prisoner of love<em>

And just as he figured his impression of her couldn't get better, the spotlights moved and completely illuminated her.

She was gorgeous…amazingly so.

Tall, she had a pair of legs that stretched a welcoming distance, their length only interrupted by generous curves, the kind even the most experienced men hadn't tried. Her floor length, strapless gown clung to her like a second skin, highlighting every envious feature of her lovely body. The deep red of the dress played well off her bronzed shoulders and perfectly styled curls.

He held back a groan as he watched her satin covered fingers slide up and down the mic stand. She was a pin-up, his own live pin-up with more than just the inciting looks.

She felt music deeply, any idiot could tell by the way she stood center stage, with her eyes closed and mouth moving into the boxy microphone. The way her body got lost in the soft beats. She enthralled him, kept him lured until the very last line drifted from her delectable lips.

The sudden sharpness of a thundering applause finally pulled Mark away from his thoughts.

"Thank you," the woman offered appreciatively, taking a small bow before turning to the band and asking for something more lively.

"She's very special isn't she?"

Hesitantly drawing himself away from the onstage enchantress, Mark refocused his mind and attention back on business.

But the demanding sound of horns and flutes wafted through the air again, and he fought the strong urge to ignore everything around him while he caught another number.

"Her mother was a singer, had a voice just as beautiful."

"What exactly does this have to do with my job?"

"It has everything to do with your job," smirking, Carlos stared back at his entertainer, emitting a mixture of pride and lament as the crowd cheered to her shaking hips and sultry rendition of an unfamiliar Cuban melody. "Calliope is my daughter, my only child."

Eyeing the now rowdy gaggle of men she sang for, he understood why the man would summon someone from so far for the job. "You want me to protect her, I don't do that kind of work." _Damn shame too_, he thought to himself as he looked toward the beaming singer.

Leaning forward, he shook head, "Detective Sloan, I want you to follow her."

Narrowing his eyes, Mark turned back to the older man. For the first time, the wariness of his state became apparent.

"I want to know everything about her day; where she goes, who she's meeting with, what she does." Pausing, Carlos dropped him steel eyes, "everything."

Shifting Mark turned back to the stage, just in time to see the woman pull a young man from the audience to dance with her.

"Why?"

Laughing, Carlos _Big Papa_ Torres flashed his hard gaze to the lighted duo.

"Because she's trying to have me killed."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Oh those reviews were so wonderful, they really brightened my day; thank you so much for the kind words. They even kicked my planning into gear, lets hope the next part comes together quickly *crosses fingers* Anyway, here's part 2, still slow going and a little insight on Callie.

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><p><em>Sheldon's<em> was an off the radar motel about ten miles up the road from the Little Havana nightclub. It was dirty, dangerous and low key enough for a working detective to find sanctuary.

"You're in twenty-two," the woman behind the counter popped her gum, not even bothering to look up at him as she grabbed his payment.

All business, no small talk; he liked that, respected it even. Run-down shacks like this made his job of staying anonymous a hell of a lot easier.

Nodding to the still uninterested woman (more out of formality than anything else), Mark took the key she had slipped across the counter and made his way down the row of numbered rooms.

"Twenty-two," he mumbled, half-smoked cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke.

Passing nineteen, a warm wind swept through the air, reminding him how far away he was from his own bed. Shaking his head, he stopped and threw his cigarette on the cracked concrete, stomping it out before he turned to his new residence. Using the key, he pushed his way through the entrance.

Slamming the door shut behind him, Mark stood still as the blinds of the adjacent window rattled against the muddied glass. When the noise finally subsided, he reached into his long overcoat and pulled a batch of rolled papers from the inside pocket. Setting them on the table near the dusty spring-backed chair, he removed his hat and jacket, tossing them both on the bed. Reaching up, he yanked at the knot of his tie, loosening it.

It was then that his mind unexpectedly drifted. Without warning, his thoughts flew to the sensuous female with the commanding voice and dynamite figure. Her smile alone could sink any man to his knees. She held everything secretly wanted in a woman-power, sensuality, danger.

"Shady broad," he grumbled to himself, fighting the salacious thoughts forming about his lovely target. Mark couldn't allow himself to entertain the idea of fulfilling the mind-floating fantasies of this woman, no matter how delicious they might be. It wasn't that he hadn't stuck it to the daughters (and wives) of his clients before; quite the opposite, it was that something about this one was different, more intoxicating and twice as lethal.

Sliding the tie off his neck, he flung it on the bed with his other belongings and plopped himself into the chair. Leaning forward, he switched on the small lamp beside him and grabbed the rumpled papers resting on the table. Holding them with one hand, he shifted and reached into his trouser pocket with the other, yanking his emergency flask from it. Twisting the cap, he took a large gulp of the scotch that he'd picked up on the way to his hole in the wall living quarters. Groaning at the pleasure of the liquid depositing itself throughout his body, Mark set it onto the tabletop.

"Now," he paused, dropping back to get comfortable, "let's see why Papa's so scared of you baby doll."

Unraveling the sheets, he flipped through the first few documents, photos. Apparently, Big Papa had tried his hand at investigation. There were three shots, one of her shopping, another of her outside some crumbling apartment building, and the third of her enjoying lunch. None were incriminating; in fact, the only suspicious bit he could gather from them was the constant presence of a petite, curly haired Asian woman.

Turning his attention to the written information provided by Mr. Torres, Mark lifted the sheet and read her full name aloud, "Calliope Iphigenia Torres." Smiling, he chuckled, this family didn't do anything half-assed.

Narrowing his eyes, he sped through the rest of the information, mainly consisting of her regular spots, her most notable acquaintances and some bits of personal facts. She was the only child of Carlos Torres and wife Lucia, a performer herself who had passed away some years back. Their daughter, having inherited her mother's voice, started singing in her father's nightclub at the ripe age of nineteen and hadn't stopped since. From then on her life seemed to spiral, running into disastrous romantic relationships, turning to sexual promiscuity, associating herself with less than honorable persons.

"All good dames go bad at some point," he mused wryly, mind going back to a particular doe-eyed female from his past.

Tossing all but one photo back onto the table, Mark reached over and picked up the silver flask again. Taking in the last of his drink, he ran a thumb over the tarnished edge of Callie's photograph.

"What are you hiding?"

Sighing, he dropped back against the chair and let the photo lay out on his chest. His lids suddenly became heavy and his eyes shut as he succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.

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><p>Callie hummed as she sat in front of her vanity, carefully pulling at the tips of her gloved fingers. Gripping the smooth material, she slipped one off after the other and set the pair beside her earlier used makeup. Closing her eyes, she reached up to removed her diamond encrusted earrings.<p>

Behind her the dressing room door opened.

"About time. Get me out of this dress."

Shaking her head, Callie smiled while she dropped her hands back and raised her loose hair above her shoulders. Not bothering to open her eyes, she went on humming.

Alexander crept into the room slowly, grin sliding over his lips as moved closer. He knew an opportunity when one was presented.

Slinking up behind her, he ran his middle finger down the line of buttons that held the snug dress to her body. Taking her quick wiggle as a sign that she wanted him to speed up his ministrations, he dropped his fingers, working them deftly as he popped open each button with ease. When the gown was finally loose and falling away from her chest, his hands continued working; caressing the skin of her spine as he reached down and unclasped the strapless brassiere that was very much on display for him.

Eyes flying open, Callie looked at her reflection in the mirror, horrified at finding a smirking Alexander Karev looming behind her. Standing, she clutched her chest and pushed him back and away from her.

"What are you doing?"

Shooting her an arrogant smirk, he tilted his head and spoke, "Baby, don't pretend you didn't know it was me."

"You're a filthy pig Karev! Don't ever touch me again."

Raising his hands, he stepped back and chuckled. "I only came to tell you that Papa wants to see you. I wasn't expecting the invitation from you sweet cheeks."

"Get. Out." She spit coldly, glaring at him for all she was worth.

Unfazed, Alexander gave her another slow once over before backpedaling his exit.

Fuming, Callie slammed the door behind him. Turning the lock, she rushed around her dressing room collecting the clothes she'd arrived at the club in. Infuriated, she yanked on her gray skirt suit and slipped into her pumps then wrenched open the lock and door, stomping down the hall toward her father's office.

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><p>Carlos Torres sat back in his large leather chair, using his fingers to sift through a mess of papers deemed confidential.<p>

Eyeing his discreet behavior, Aria moved into him, unnecessarily leaning over his shoulder as she set another glass of whiskey by his hand.

Sensing her curiosity and intention, he moved the sheets from sight, slipping them into the top drawer of his desk.

Raising a finely shaped brow, she crossed her arms and glanced at him.

Smiling, he shook his head, "Accounts, nothing special."

Before Aria could respond, the door to his office flew open, forcing all eyes to turn toward the entrance.

"Ah there she is," Carlos announced cheerily, ignoring the obvious anger his daughter had walked through the door with.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't send your disgusting guards to come fetch me!"

Following Callie's deadly glare, Carlos's eyes landed on the young man at his side, who was busy sending his daughter a jagged smirk.

Hardening his own gaze, Carlos's jaw tightened as his mind settled on the what might have gone wrong during Alexander's simple errand. The boy had always been a smarmy little son of a bitch, with grabby hands and an apparent death wish. Clenching his fist, he popped his knuckles; the bastard would be dealt with later, maybe thrown to the wolves for fun. He was almost sure Owen hadn't given a good pounding in a while.

"What do you want?"

Turning his attention, Carlos met the steel of his only child. Softening instantly, he smiled and rubbed his fingers along the edge of his desk. Pulling his eyes away from her, he shook his head lightly and smiled, "I wanted to tell you that you were fantastic tonight. You looked and sounded just like your mother."

He'd struck the delicate cord he knew still existed within her. Anyone drawing that comparison always lifted the heaviness from her heart; and sometimes made her forget about the cruel world she found herself living in.

"Have you given any thought to what we discussed?"

Beautiful moments with her father seemed to be cut shorter and shorter these days.

Puffing her lips, Callie scoffed and stared up at the ceiling, snorting loudly as she swiveled away from her father. Rolling her shoulders, she rested a hand over her stomach (done to keep her revulsion at bay) and straightened herself before taking a few steps toward the door.

"Don't I even get a goodbye?"

Pausing, Callie pursed her lips and worked to calm her breathing. Finding a steady rhythm, she whipped around and tossed her father an ominous smile before strolling back to him. Sliding around the desk, she reached over and grabbed the tips of his ears, using them to tilt his head downward as she dropped a red lipped kiss to his bald patch. Shifting, she lowered her mouth to his ear and chuckled forebodingly.

"Goodbye Papa."

Pulse racing, Carlos shivered as he watched his baby girl exit. She definitely had it in for him; his heart broke at the sad musing.

Sighing at the display, Aria rolled her eyes as the door shut behind her younger sister. Walking around the corner of the desk, she hopped up and propped herself on its edge, crossing her legs and arms while she looked down at the worried man she called father.

"I'll go and have a chat with her later."

He reached up and patted her knee, nodding his gratitude.

A sudden loud, thudding knock came to his door and seconds later, Owen stuck his head into the room, "Webber's here."

Straightening, he waved his hand silently signaling to his guard to allow the guests in. Prepping his desk, he spoke without looking up at Aria. "Go talk with her now." Catching the questioning tilt from the his step-daughter, he cleared his throat, "I have business to attend to."

Just as he spoke, Richard Webber, rumored murderer/gang lord, walked into the room followed by large meat headed lackeys.

"Welcome," standing, Carlos offered the man a hand. "Please have a seat my friend."

Moving forward, one of Webber's guards wiped the seat clean before he sat in the chair. Folding his hands over his abdomen, he sat back and watched the interaction between Carlos and his step-daughter.

Feeling his eyes glued to her, Aria leaned over kissing Carlos's cheek and swung off the desk, moving to the hanger as she grabbed her coat. Slipping it across her shoulders, she snatched up her purse and waved a small goodbye before finally exiting the room.

"Quite a piece."

"We're not here to discuss my family."

Snickering, he looked around at the group of men he brought with him; getting a good laugh in before turning back to Carlos.

"Then let's talk business."

* * *

><p>Her black pumps clunked against the cement steps that led up to the entrance of her studio apartment.<p>

The place was anything but desirable, filthy in almost every aspect of its existence; but it was home. The home _she_ had created. It was one of the only things she still held control of in her life.

Not that her father hadn't tried to take it over; she did have another apartment, a luxury living space that he kept fully furnished and waiting for her, in the hopes that she'd decide to live there one day.

But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction; she was tired of his meddling in her life.

Unlocking the door, she flicked on the light and walked into the room. Tucking her simple black clutch under her left arm, she used her teeth to carefully peel off her short gloves. As they loosened, she slid them off and dropped the tiny bunch of material onto the corner of her coffee table. Removing her coat and hat, she hung them on the holder at the corner near the door.

Sighing, she kicked off her heels, letting her nylon covered feet settle into the floor before moving around the room and plopping onto the couch. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and let the tension roll off her body.

The fast knocks at the door startled her. She hadn't been expecting guests and the only person who would come knocking in that manner was still waiting out by the club.

"Open up Calliope Iphigenia."

She chuckled at the use of her full name; only a few people could get away with it, and her dear older sister Aria was definitely one of them.

Standing, she walked to the door and pulled it open.

"Did he send you?"

"No," Aria answered honestly, after all it had been her idea to come after the younger woman.

"Do you want to come in?"

Aria's eyes traveled around the room, spotting what by her standards were unclean surfaces. "Not really, but I have no other choice do I?"

Laughing, Callie smiled good naturedly as her sister sent her a teasing grin. Though she knew the words were playful, Callie also knew that some part of them were true. Her sister had always been prim and proper, most times she wondered how they were even related at all, so she was aware that stepping into a place so beneath the way they'd grown up (and the way she currently lived) took great effort.

But she never held that against her sister.

Stepping around, Callie went back to her previous position of lazing on the couch, settling in as if no one had bothered her.

"He only does it because he loves you."

Sniffing at the comment Callie, cracked a disgusted grin.

Aria, sensing that she would get nowhere with this tactic, pushed at Callie's legs, dropping them from blocking the pathway to the couch. Squeezing in beside her sister, she playfully poked Callie's temple.

Opening her eyes in annoyance, Callie lifted her head from the couch, allowing Aria to slip an arm over her shoulders. Giving in, Callie let her head fall into the Aria smaller body. Curling her fingers, Aria rubbed tiny circles into her hair.

They stayed silent for a few moments, taking comfort in the familiar closeness.

"Do you really believe that relationship would have lasted? In your heart of hearts do you think you two would have grown old together?"

Callie took her time to think, still unsure of how to answer the repeatedly asked question. "I guess I'll never know will I?"

"At least he cares enough to take _some_ sort of action. I could bring the world's most dangerous criminal to the dinner table and he wouldn't bat an eyelash."

"That's not true," Callie defended quickly, then lowered her shoulders as she realized how little effort it took to come to her father's aide.

Raising an eyebrow in her sister's direction, Aria laughed. Rolling her eyes, Callie stood and took a few steps toward her kitchen.

"Do you want a drink?" She asked, grabbing the bottle of wine that was resting on the counter.

Looking around the room, Aria shuddered. "I think I may need one or three. My goodness Calliope, how do you live in this dump?"

Holding up two glasses, Callie laughed and made her way to the couch, easily residing beside her sister for the rest of the night.


End file.
